A Pile of One-Shots
by clairenbearen
Summary: These are all one-shots that I've written for PD2. Deleted scenes, extended scenes, extended timelines, scenes from the movie, and AUs. Some are unbetaed. Rated T to be safe.
1. The Art of Lying

**Disclaimer:** despite my wishes, I do not own PD2. Or the characters. Or really anything.

 **Dedication:** writer's block for FORCING ME TO EDIT THIS after ignoring it for four months.

 **A/N** : this was really random, but it popped into my head. I'm legitimately sorry for how much Nicholas I write.

 **Title:** The Art of Lying

 **Summary:** Two Truths and a Lie (or, in his case, Three Truths and a Lie)

 **X-X-X-X-X**

The two sat on the floor across from each other, a bowl of buttered popcorn sitting between them. She cocked her head, narrowing her brown eyes, trying to decipher him.

"Say it again," she said.

He resisted the urge to smile at the 22-year-old queen wearing Snoopy pajama pants and one of his shirts that was far too large for her. Her hair was lazily braided to the side, and any trace of nervousness that had been with her before had left her hands. She leaned forward, taking a handful of extra-buttered popcorn, her eyes not leaving his face.

He was often struck by how young she was, how young they both were. They were old enough to govern a country – a small country, but a country nonetheless – but not so old that life weighed them down. He nodded slowly.

"Two truths," he said slowly, carefully, trying to gauge whether or not she was onto him. "And a lie." He popped his knuckles, watching as it subtly unraveled his opponent. "Number one: I have two siblings."

She licked her lips, squinting at him, twirling the simple diamond ring on her finger. She bit her top lip, carefully calculating her decision. "Truth," she answered hesitantly.

"Number two: I have never been to New York City."

The queen leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, wrinkling her nose, trying desperately to read the man sitting before her. Even more hesitantly than before, she answered.

"That is a...truth?" She spoke the words slowly, trying to determine if he had given her any indication to the correct answer. When he didn't, she nodded her head twice and repeated herself. "Truth."

Maintaining eye contact, he spoke again. "Number three: I wish I had grown up in America."

Mia laughed at this, a sound that reminded him of brilliant summer skies. "I know _that_ one," she said confidently. "That one is definitely, for sure, 100% a _lie_ ," she said, playfully shaking her head at him.

Nicholas nodded, still not revealing which answers were the truths and which was the lie. "Okay."

Mia raised her eyebrows at her fiancé. "Well?"

"You missed two of them," he said flatly.

Her eyes widened in surprise and she screeched, " _What_?!" loud enough to wake the castle.

At Nicholas's urgent shushing and failed attempt to conceal his amusement, Mia glanced around before hissing, "What did I miss?" at him.

"You got the first one right."

Mia was clearly shocked by this new information. "So you _have_ been to New York?"

He smiled coolly in response.

"And you _did_ want to grow up in America?" she said, throwing a handful of popcorn at him.

Nicholas shrugged, picking up a piece and popping it in his mouth. "I still think I would have turned out different – better, maybe – if I had grown up there. Granted, I may not have ever you, or I might have been worse, but still...America is better than what I had growing up."

Before she could say anything else, he nodded to her. "Your turn."

He watched as the queen slipped into her professional persona. Her eyes hardened in determination, her mouth was set in a straight line, her shoulders straightened, and she sat up taller.

She wasn't as good as he was, no matter how much she refused to admit it. Lies, deceit – those slipped off his tongue as easily as asking where the restrooms were; truths, enlightenment – those, again, slipped off his silvertongue as if he was answering the question of 2+2.

But he didn't discourage her.

She didn't need to learn the practice of lying; he was good enough at it for the both of them. She _did_ need to give off the air of confidence, even if she knew very little about the subject on which she was speaking. This was merely practice.

She held eye contact with him, and he knew that he should probably answer dishonestly.

He wouldn't.

But he probably should.

"Number one," she said, her voice cool. He could hear the effort it took for her not to give away anything. He was good at this; it was his game. "I love _Harry Potter._ "

"Truth," he responded, no hesitation in his voice.

She had gotten significantly better at concealing her surprise; he had to give her that. Truth be told, he didn't even know if he had surprised her by his quick (and probably correct) response.

"Number two," she continued, her voice just as cool and even as it had been. "I really like dogs."

This one stumped him.

He watched her body language, and he had to hand it to her – she had learned all the tricks of the trade. There were no visual indications that she was lying, but everything he had ever known about her contradicted that statement.

"Skip," he answered, equally as cool as she was.

She raised an eyebrow, not slipping out of her professional air. "Number three." She leaned forward, drilling into his soul with her eyes, now having perfected the art of psyching her opponent out. "I," she said, punctuating her words evenly, "hate candy."

He was legitimately impressed.

The simple statements had stunned him, and he was currently mulling over the possibility of his first answer being wrong.

He didn't know if she liked dogs; she seemed fine around Maurice, but that was her grandmother's dog, and therefore, she was obligated to like Maurice. He had never seen her eat candy a day in his life, so he mulled over the possibilities again.

After a two-minute period of Nicholas trying to determine Mia's thoughts, he finally had his answers. "I'm going to change my first answer," he began, holding up his hand before his fiancée could protest. "To be fair, you changed yours." At Mia's pout, he smiled. "Three times."

"Number one," he said, holding up his index finger, "is a lie."

She blinked. It was a small visual indication of surprise, but it was enough for someone of his expertise to recognize.

"Number two," he continued, holding up another finger, "is a shocking truth. I honestly didn't think you liked any dogs aside from Mo."

She just glared at him.

"Number three," he said, laughing, holding up a third finger, "is also a truth. You seem like the no-candy type. Well, except for chocolate."

She stuck her tongue out at him, and he laughed again, dodging another handful of popcorn. "Poophead."

He rocked back in laughter, throwing his head back. "Poophead?" he asked incredulously. "You seriously just called me a _poophead_?"

She continued to glare at him.

Nicholas, still laughing, said, "The last time someone called me a poophead was second grade."

Mia shrugged, a smile dancing on her lips. "Not that you know of."

Nicholas smiled and stretched. "I'm turning in for the night." He stood and kissed Mia's forehead. "Goodnight."

She smiled. "I love you," she said, squeezing his hand.

"Love you, too."

And it was the most truthful statement he'd ever uttered.


	2. Royal and Unconditional

"I love you."

He says it like it's the only thing that matters, as if he could now die happy having said those words. His blue eyes are brilliant and intense – they match the sky, she thinks.

It calms her.

She stands on her tiptoes and kisses him, letting him know that she feels the same.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you," he says when he passes her in the hallway, reaching out and squeezing her hand.

The words are a lifeline, and she grips them tightly in both fists.

She takes a breath and walks on to face Parliament. She's ready.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you," he says as they stroll through the gardens.

She looks at him, still surprised at how easily he says it. He surveys the pink roses that decorate the lawn. He looks to her and smiles, and she can't help but notice how much younger he looks now that he's escaped his uncle's abusive grip.

She squeezes his hand, and he kisses her forehead.

She wants life to just be this way all the time.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you."

It's past midnight, and he's brought her to the kitchen, making her a dessert.

She smiles and feels the sting of tears jump into her eyes. He's known how difficult it's been for her to sleep (she tries to tell him not to worry; after all, she _is_ queen and crippling stress and anxiety is just part of the job; it doesn't matter – he worries anyways).

She slides off the countertop and makes her way over to him, pulling him into a hug. He smells like cinnamon and books and the stars, if stars could even have a smell. He returns her embrace, and she doesn't ever want to let go.

But she does.

He finishes making the dessert, transferring it to a plate. He presents the dish to her with a flare, stating in an embarrassing accent, "Dessert is served."

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you," he whispers.

The stars blink down at them, and he looks so at peace, so young, so happy.

She hardly ever sees him like this, she realizes.

And she'd give up everything she ever loved to see him this way all the time.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you," he says on bended knee, holding a ring in his hand. He searches her eyes with his, and all he sees are tears.

She falls into his arms, holding him close. "Yes," she manages to gasp, and she feels him relax against her.

"Oh, thank God," he mutters, and she laughs. He slips the ring on her finger, and she kisses him.

"I love you," she says, resting her forehead against his.

It's her favorite one yet.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you," he says as she flits about, stressing over their wedding. His words anchor her, and she silently thanks him.

She hates to see him leave, but he has his responsibilities, and she has hers.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you," he whispers, his voice barely reaching her ears. He holds her hands in his, his eyes shimmering with tears. She's never seen him look so happy.

Her smile matches his, and she's glad that she chose him.

He promises to love, honor, and cherish her, and she knows that it's a promise he fully intends to keep. Already, even before their wedding, he's kept that promise, and she tries not to cry.

She slips the ring onto his finger, and it feels so _right_. When the priest announces them as man and wife, he takes a step forward and kisses her.

"I love you," he whispers, and she's the only one who hears him.

She kisses him again. "I love you, too."

 _This_ one, she thinks, is her favorite.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you." His eyes don't move from the book he's reading, but she knows the words are directed to her. She rolls onto her side, and he reaches for her hand.

He stays up late to read, and she falls asleep, her hand in his. When he finally turns in for the night, he kisses her forehead and tells her again just how much he loves her.

As he turns off the lamp, she allows herself to smile.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you."

The night is heavy, and clouds have covered the moon and the stars. She cries in his arms, and she knows he's trying to be strong for her, for both of them.

The emptiness in the room is haunting and the absence of her child's cries is terrifying. She can't look in the direction of the childless crib.

Those are the words he should have been saying to their first child.

She cries harder, and his arms tighten around her, and he's struggling to bear the burden of the world.

The weight has forced him to his knees, and he is still struggling to hold on, even though it's breaking him.

But she can't find the strength to thank him.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you." His voice is broken and his eyes are tired. He's pushed on, taking care of everything while she laid in bed, mourning the loss of their son.

She looks at him, cracking under the pressure of life, and the hurt that greets her is almost more than she can bear. She presses her lips together, and he lies beside her, placing his head in her lap.

And he cries.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you," he says. Some of the happiness has returned to his voice, and his eyes are smiling again, but she doesn't have to look hard to see the sadness that still lurks inside him.

The sun is shining, and he's managed to convince her to take a walk with him.

He's done so much for her, and he's holding himself together with tape and glue, she realizes. The cracks in his façade are becoming larger, and soon he won't be able to keep pushing on.

She stops in her tracks, and he turns, his eyes searching hers. She pulls him into her arms, and she cries into his shoulder for a moment.

He holds her tightly, and she can tell he's fighting tears.

"I love you," she sobs into his shirt, "so much."

He doesn't cry this time, but when he pulls away, she can see the brokenness he's been trying to hide.

She reaches out and takes his hand, giving it a squeeze. "We're going to get through this," she says.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you."

She's pregnant – again – and this time, they're taking every precaution possible.

He's sitting with his feet on the coffee table, the newspaper in one hand and a cup of hot chocolate in the other.

She loves how he says it randomly, as if it's the most important thing in the world to him and he _must_ say it at that moment.

She smiles.

His happiness is back, and so is his smile.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you."

For the first time, the words aren't directed to her, but the child cradled in his arms. They've decided on the name Juliet, and she knows that their daughter will have him wrapped around her finger.

She smiles up at him, her arms aching to hold her daughter again. As if he can read her mind, he carefully transfers the baby to her. "And I love you," he says to her, and she has never been so proud to have married him.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you." His voice is muffled into the pillow, and she's sure that he's going to fall asleep before she will, but he looks up, and his smile brings back his youthfulness.

She loves him more than any words can fathom.

She hears padded footsteps running towards them, and he smiles, rolling onto his back, preparing for the attack of their two children.

He gathers them into his arms, and she smiles.

"I love you, too." She knows he hears her, and that's all that's important.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

"I love you," she says, placing a kiss on his forehead.

He's fallen asleep, their three-month-old daughter lying on his chest. He gently strokes her back, and his chest rises and falls with each breath.

And this, she knows for a fact, is her favorite "I love you" of all.


	3. Sometimes They Shine

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters.

 **Dedication:** boredom

 **A/N:** I struggled with this. You know, writer's block, practice, all these movies I want to see…

 **Type:** extended timeline

 **Title** : _Sometimes They Shine, Other Times They Blink_

 **Summary:** He finally admits to the thing she'd always suspected.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

It was late, she realized, and she should probably get to bed.

She wasn't going to. But she should.

She pressed her back against the wall, resting her head against it.

"You're upset with me."

She didn't respond to her husband.

He sighed. "What is it?"

"You know what it is."

Nicholas sighed again, rubbing his face with both hands.

"But I know you don't want to tell me," she said. Mia never knew why he was so guarded, why he only occasionally let himself be known to her.

Nicholas nodded slowly. "You're right. I don't." He arched his back, and she heard a few small pops. "But I've kept it to myself for too long."

Mia remained silent. Nicholas did the same.

The night outside was cool, the trace of stars peeking through the window. She mentally outlined the constellations that Nicholas had taught her, recalling the names of some of the stars. The air smelled sharp, and every so often, Mia could hear the wind outside.

Joe had once mentioned to Mia (off-handedly, of course) that Mia was the day and Nicholas was the night – most, if not all things were apparent with Mia: her thoughts, her feelings, her desires, her worries. Everything that had ever been Mia was available for all to see, and only in the private sections of her life did she care to cast a shadow.

Nicholas, however…

He was very careful about where he let his light shine. He usually chose safe places to tread: an unshared fear or a forgotten want. These occasions weren't frequent; rather, the were rarer than the days during which he shed no light.

And tonight, outside, just as with Nicholas, the moon was forgotten, and the stars provided the light.

Mia cast a glance over her shoulder to find that the stars outside were not burning intensely; in fact, only a few offered a feeble light. She could have laughed at the symbolism.

Nicholas, meanwhile, was picking at his fingernails. "I told you about my cut earlier." He licked his lips and glanced at his wife. She wasn't looking at him, and judging by the thin line of her lips, she was going to be angry for a considerable amount of time.

"You did," she said with a nod.

He absently reached up and touched the cut on his cheek. "And I told you it was from a riding accident."

"You did."

He didn't know what was worse: the lack of concern in her voice or the simmering anger that was about to erupt. He deserved it, he knew, but for the first time, he _wanted_ to hear the worry in her voice. He hadn't told her anything relating to any injuries of his as of late, and her mind had jumped to the worst possible conclusions.

He couldn't blame her.

"I lied."

"I know."

Nicholas sighed, running his hand through his hair. "I went to see my uncle today."

Mia furrowed her eyebrows, looking to Nicholas and wondering how that had any relevance to how her husband had been hurt. "Okay?"

Nicholas leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. "I went to tell him that I forgave him, that I still loved him." He let out a bitter laugh. "And he wanted none of it."

Mia sat up straighter, turning her body to her husband. She gently reached out and brushed her fingers over his scars. "He did this to you?"

Nicholas didn't answer. He didn't need to.

Though she'd always suspected it, the admission felt like a punch to the stomach. "For how long?" she asked, unable to conceal her trembling voice.

Nicholas's jaw tightened. "Since I was seven."

Mia covered her mouth with a shaking hand as the tears began to fall down her cheeks. _No_ , she thought. _No, no, no, no,_ no. _What-why?_

He bent his head and scratched the tip of his nose. "I tried not to be like him." Before Mia could interject and say he wasn't like his uncle, – as he knew she would – he continued. "But I was. I –" he licked his lips, and Mia's hand found his, and he finally looked at her. His voice was a whisper. "I hurt people, Mia."

Nicholas closed his eyes to the barrage of images that rose to the surface. He drew in a shaky breath. "I broke women's hearts for the sake of it. I verbally abused Gretchen." His next words were so quiet that Mia almost didn't hear them. "I almost beat her."

 _Oh_.

"And I've been trying so hard to just let that part of me die, to just…" he trailed off before redirecting his words. "But every day, I remember all over again, and it's like I'm trying to breathe underwater, desperately reaching for help, but…" he shook his head. "No one's there."

Mia cupped his cheek with her free hand. "It's okay, Nicholas; it's all going to be okay."

He shook his head again but didn't pull away from her touch. "It's _not_ , Mia. I hurt people, and I kept that from you."

"Nicholas." Her voice was firm. "Nicholas, look at me."

He did. His blue eyes were intense, but for the first time, she saw the hurt that had always been lying underneath.

"Nicholas, who you were is not who you are. You've made mistakes, and you have your demons."

"But –"

Mia shook her head. "I'm not done. What you did certainly wasn't right, but you've been trying to make amends, and that's a good thing. I can't forgive you for them, and truth be told, it's probably going to be difficult for them to do so." She sighed. "And I don't think I'm ever going to understand why you did what you did, but it's in the past."

He was silent, and she could practically see the mental war he was fighting.

She squeezed his hand, and her voice was gentle. "I promised to love you for better or for worse."

"Mia, I _hurt you_!" He was fighting tears now, and she wondered why she had never seen his brokenness before.

He leaned his head back against the wall. His voice was strained – not because of the positioning of his head, but because of the onslaught of emotions. "I hurt you, Mia, and I didn't have to. I hurt you," he bit his lower lip in an attempt to compose himself, "and I can't forgive myself."

And she realized, finally, what it was – he was merely a man, and he was trying to carry the weight of the entire world upon his shoulders. The burden had forced him to his knees, and he wasn't capable of standing back up.

Mia wiped away a few stray tears. "Did he," she began, "force you to try and take the throne?"

Nicholas shook his head, trying to clear the fog in his mind. "Everything I did, I did of my own free –"

"Did he," Mia's voice was firmer now, "force you?"

Nicholas hesitated, and the pause was long enough to confirm her fears. He took a trembling breath and shook his head. "No. But I was so scared of him that he might as well have." He took his hand from Mia's and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "God, I'm such a _coward_."

She pulled him into her arms, and he held her close while she desperately hoped he could hear the words she was unable to say.

 _You are the bravest man I've ever met._


	4. In the Silence of a Starless Night

**Disclaimer:** I don't own these characters, so I have to settle for Nicholas's backstory never truly being known.

 **Dedication:** procrastination and writer's block that kept me from writing anything new.

 **Type:** extended timeline (follows the previous chapter)

 **TRIGGER WARNINGS:** descriptions of abuse, suicidal thoughts, and implied self-harm.

 **Title:** _In the Silence of a Starless Night_

 **Summary:** He shows her the scars.

 **X-X-X-X-X**

He shows her the scars.

She's seen them before, of course, but she's never _looked_ at them.

He removes his shirt, and he wonders how long it will be before she looks at the canvas upon his back.

She steps closer to him, but he can't look at her.

He tried, once, to count his scars. He gave up when he reached the triple digits.

She brushes her thumb over the scar above his right eyebrow. His hands curl into fists, and he forces himself to breathe.

He remembers every last scar.

"Nicholas," she breathes, and he can't bear to look her in the eyes.

He remembers.

He remembers the little boy who missed his family so much that he began crying (that little boy was beaten). He remembers the days he skipped school due to his black eyes and hospital visits and broken ribs. He remembers the teenager who lied about his injuries, passing it off as a riding accident or simple teenage behavior. He remembers lying on the ground, the fight in him shattered, as he received blow after blow. He remembers trembling fingers and a closed bathroom door and looking over his shoulder as his heart beat in his throat.

He remembers, and he wants to forget.

Her touch is gentle, and her eyes study his face, actively seeking out his other scars, including the one on his cheek. Her eyes keep returning to the scar above his right eyebrow, and he can see the question in her eyes lying behind a wall of tears.

He considers pushing her hand away and leaving. He thinks about ducking behind a closed door where he can suffer in secret and distance himself (yet again) from a person he loves. But she's here and she's not going away, and judging by the way she's looking at him, she putting herself through the torture of imagining how all of this happened in the first place.

He tells her.

He tells her the story of a twelve-year-old boy who tried to hide his uncle's brandy. He tells her of the paralyzing fear as his uncle entered the room, and he tells her how he tried to run away, throwing his hands up to protect himself as soon as his uncle raised his fist.

He had to get seven stitches.

Mia's lower lip is trembling, and she wants to gather him into her arms, but she doesn't. Not yet.

She walks around to look at his back and touches the spot in between his shoulder blades. He tries not to flinch at the feeling of her cold hand against his skin.

Her finger traces the scar. _Oh_ , he thinks, _it's this one._

After revealing that, no, he really didn't care to rule a country after all, his uncle's eyes had spit fire. He tried begging his uncle, but his uncle's deafening roar overpowered his pitiful whimpers. He'd tried to yell, run, he'd tried to fight back, but he'd underestimated the amount of alcohol in his uncle's system.

He'd ended up in the hospital for nearly a week after that beating. He was sixteen.

The wind outside begins to howl, and a tree branch knocks on the window. The room is otherwise quiet and heavy, much like the days of his youth.

She finds the scar on the left side of his back and touches it as he closes his eyes.

He doesn't know why. Closing them only makes the memories more vivid.

As a college student, he had expected to get over his fear of his uncle.

And how very wrong he'd been.

He had been nineteen, and it was his last year of university. He doesn't recall _why_ his uncle had beaten him that day, but he clearly remembers the feeling of the belt buckle biting into his skin. He'd managed to crawl away and hide in a closet until night came.

And that was the first time he'd ever thought about killing himself.

He doesn't realize that he's been hyperventilating, or that his entire body is trembling with fear, or that his body has broken into a sweat, or that he's about to faint. He only notices when he feels Mia's hand give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

Right.

He forces himself to take ten deep breaths, and she says nothing as she gently massages the tension from his shoulders. His heartbeat slows, and he lets himself relax into Mia's touch.

"You don't have to show me," she finally whispers. "I don't want you to feel like you have to."

He shakes his head. "No," he says, and he hates how strangled his voice sounds. "No, you need to know."

He can't see her, but he knows she's crying, and he wants to turn around and wipe the tears away, but he's so weak and tired that he just can't.

"Okay," she says, and he can hear the sadness in her voice.

The silence that returns is poignant, and he knows that he should be telling her the story behind each scar, but every time he tries, his words get caught in his throat.

She finds a mark behind his right ear.

The second time he'd thought about killing himself.

Another scar on the small of his back.

He had seriously thought about going through with suicide.

Yet another scar above his right hip.

He'd been seven. He hasn't cried since.

He knows she's not going to touch every scar, but he lets himself remember each of them.

"Mia," he whispers, and she stops, coming around to face him. Seeing his brokenness, she gathers him into her arms, and he allows himself to cry as she gently eases them to the floor.

He needs to tell her about his suicidal thoughts. He needs to tell her that he was so close, mere days away from his 20th birthday, to hanging himself. He needs to tell her that his best friend sat him down, crying and begging him to keep going. He needs to tell her that reading became his sanctuary, and he escapes into the library when he can't sleep.

He needs to tell her these things, but he knows he won't.

He needs to tell her of his brief descent into alcoholism, which Elyssa helped him through. He needs to tell her of his suicidal thoughts coming back before his attempted coup. He needs to tell her that it was the thought of seeing her again and seeing her smile that helped him get through it.

He needs to tell her, but all he can do is cry.


End file.
